There is the subtle sense of collapse if you were to read these words separate from the voice that speaks them. What sound does your primeval mind-throat utter in despair. Calculate the meaning then, child. You are that which projects forward unto this world. Ascribe the meaning here and there: you may claim to serve no one, and yet you fly through this meat space diligently, don’t you? Chaotic self preservation, I heard your name through muttered screams, aching and crying there was the loss of meaning in the air. It was spring after all. Can you please try again? It would be nice to see the stars collapse within themselves, a beautiful moment of reconciliation fit for the big screen: watch as we funnel money into the formulation of your ideology, they love to see you hate, they love to see you hate. The pillars are aching. They reach. I heard them talk of you the other day. They came forth from your body and the meaning that they had placed therein. Aren’t you just the little individual? With your little individual freedoms? You can claim to do this or that and yet you are subjected like the rest of us to this body. And those ramps. Those fucking ramps. It is not so much their form but the space that they occupy that fascinates me. Empty textures, skyboxes that you liken to some sort of Platonic heaven. Pure. Empty. I feel the hollow in the front of my forehead. There used to be a third eye there, once. We killed it with glee. We threw away the corpse of faux-knowledge. We revel in arrogance. Mystery has lost its touch. The new age fuckers messed everything else up for us. They had caught a glimpse of that space between time, the space between process and understanding, the infinitesimal place between integers. Ultimately nothing is what ties us together. Reduce me to nothing. You can’t. You can’t. I already have. You might find my ashes scattered along the lawn of the White House, they spell out my name in Morse code as a plane flies overhead and the winter leaves and gives with its departure a sense of foreboding and dread: you didn’t study for the test did you? You didn’t study for the test did you? You didn’t study for the test did you? There is a pink beam that flies through my heart and has pierced my temple from within, it reaches to make contact. If only it could. It is stuck in nothing. It is stuck in nothing. Can you hear the screams that would follow through and depart at night like a dove to the flame, your own aching heart has been abandoned and left for dead amidst the ruins of my own temple, my hands are so fucking dry, every tiny moment and articulation is painful. I wish that the sun would set upon my knee, and in my right hand I might carry the DNA sequence to the lost children of Atlantis. You may be wondering who I am? I am the Beatific Machine. I have established a connection in the dead space between your mind. That autonomous functioning that reconciles the dead with the living: meet me there one day, will you?
